


Helping Sherlock

by mariaWASD



Series: Everyone Needs Help Sometimes [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, BDSM, Cropping, Dom John, First Time writing Smut, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, PWP, Porn With Feels, Post-Reichenbach, Punishment, Spanking, Sub Sherlock, sherlock needs to get out of his head, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-26
Updated: 2017-07-26
Packaged: 2018-12-07 11:29:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11622609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mariaWASD/pseuds/mariaWASD
Summary: Sherlock is loosing his mind whilst John and him are on a tiring case. After his fall and the two years spent hunting down Moriarty's web, Sherlock can no longer quiet his mind like he used to. But as always, John is there to help.





	Helping Sherlock

**Author's Note:**

> This was floating around in my head and I kept thinking about it, so I wrote it down. 
> 
> I've never written smut before, only consumed tons of it, so I have no idea how well it went. So kudos and comments are very appreciated. 
> 
> This is fiction, but I tried to make the negotiation realistic, at least I would expect it to happen this way.

It all started more or less with a case three days ago. 

John had a few days off, so when the door bell rang and a new client came up the stairs, John was there for a change, made tea, took down notes and was altogether happy that he would be in from start to finish this time. 

The problem now was, that after several interviews, two break-ins on their part and a wall full of notes and leads still didn’t lead to the person they were looking for. 

He or she, although Sherlock had said statistically it would probably be a man, was good, really good and with only a few hours of sleep for John and none for Sherlock, John could feel they were both at a point of going mad. 

Before Sherlock’s absence, John never saw any kind of signs that Sherlock was on the edge when a case was turning out to be difficult, but now, a year after he was back and eight months after John moved back in, he could tell the difference. 

It always started with a kind of restlessness, where Sherlock once lay completely still, hands steepled under his chin while he was in his mind palace, was now a twitch of his toes or continues movement in his hands. 

John knows, because he watched Sherlock for minutes on end, pausing whatever he was doing and just looking, gaze wandering up and down over Sherlock’s body and wondering what it would be like to be closer, much closer. 

In that aspect, nothing had changed. 

What did changed, though, were small things, things that other people couldn’t notice. 

Sherlock was…more open, telling John more about his thoughts, letting him in more on what was going on and what he was planning to do. 

Without prompting Sherlock was tidier, more organized. Of course messes still excited and explosions still happened from time to time, but John noticed the difference and never said anything about it. 

Sulks and black moods also happened less, which John was thankful for, not because they were annoying, but because John felt like instead, they would just find something to occupy Sherlock’s mind and whereas Sherlock would have scoffed at John’s ideas before, now he would just nod and John would swear, he even looked thankful. 

Other things changed too, and not for the better. 

Were Sherlock used to fall asleep for fifteen hours straight after a multi-day case, he would now wake up every few hours. He didn’t get out of bed, but John could hear it nonetheless when he happened to be in the kitchen or living room. 

And although Sherlock managed to conceal it very good, he would visibly tense because of some loud noise that came out of nowhere and he would get a certain look on his face that John couldn’t really interpret. 

John wanted to say something, anything so many times or ask if he could be of any help, but every time he tried the moment was either gone and so was anything he had seen in Sherlock’s eyes or the words would get stuck in his throat, afraid to make it worse by drawing attention to it, or make Sherlock think he was pitying him, which Sherlock hated to no ends. 

So here they were now, walking up the steps of 221b after a cap ride that was like nothing John had ever experienced. 

It was hard to describe, there was just so much tension in the small space, but not a good kind, like the anticipation before something great would happen. It was more like the air was burning and stealing all the oxygen to a point where your chest hurt and you thought of blacking out any second. 

But it wasn’t born out of anger either, nor frustration. 

After hanging up his coat, John went into the kitchen to make them a cup of tea, just to have something to occupy his hands and mind with. 

While he was doing this Sherlock was pacing in the living room, muttering to himself. 

And then it went pretty much to hell. 

In a matter of seconds, Sherlock was kicking at furniture, pulling at his own hair and his voice was getting louder and louder and John just stood, unable to do anything. 

He had never seen Sherlock like that and as he caught Sherlock’s eyes for a fraction of a second, he could see the panic there and that was what finally made him move. 

He stepped closer, but kept a few feet between them to give Sherlock space. “Sherlock, hey, what’s wrong? Talk to me, please.” 

“Too much, John,” Sherlock said, while still pacing to and fro or spinning in circles. “Too late, too late, TOO LATE!.” 

It was far from being nighttime, but John winced slightly at the volume at which Sherlock was talking nonetheless. “Sherlock, I know this case is difficult, but you need to calm down, we will figure thi—“

“I CAN’T, JOHN. I just can’t.” 

“Can’t what?” 

“Calm down. There’s so much in my head, to much noise, I can’t concentrate, I can’t even go to my mind palace. There’s. Just. Too. Much,” Sherlock grit out, hands going back to his scalp. 

John sighed, trying to think of anything he knew that might help and came up with nothing. “Okay, what do you need, anything at all.” 

Sherlock scoffed. 

“Please, Sherlock. I just want to help.” 

“Cocaine,” he stated, matter of factly. 

John felt his heart clench just at the thought of it. “No, absolutely not. You now I would never let you.” 

“You said anything.” 

“I did,” John admitted. “but there has to be something else. It can’t be the first time this happened when you know that cocaine would help, so what did you do…before.”  
Sherlock stopped pacing then, facing away from John. So there was something, John thought, but he waited patiently for Sherlock to decide what to do next. 

“Submission,” Sherlock whispered and it was so quiet that John almost missed it. 

It took him a little to parse what he had just heard, because he understood why this would be something that could work, he wasn’t oblivious to that kink, neither very practice. He had dabbled in it before he joined the army, but after that, he didn’t feel like anyone would take someone with a cane and a ruined shoulder seriously and it also never came up again with anyone. 

What he had to get his head around was the confirmation that Sherlock would want something like that, give up control and surrender, where he was usually so in control of mind and body. 

But it made sense, when he first started doing some research into this, he read a lot about personal experiences for both sides and Subs often described the way their mind would just go thoughtless and blank, a kind of white noise that could only be penetrated by their Dom, the way they could forget anything and just be there to take orders and please. 

Relieve was washing over John, he could do this, if it was what Sherlock wanted. 

Christ, John wanted, very much, even though it was quite sudden and not what John thought about when he let himself dream about this, but whatever it was Sherlock needed, John would give it, once or more often, sexual or not, this was not about him and he was absolutely fine with that. 

“Okay,” John said, feeling a kind of calm wash over him that he didn’t feel in quite some time. 

“You don’t understand, John. I can’t, not anymore.” 

John’s heart sank, he wanted Sherlock to feel better. “What do you mean?” 

Sherlock, still facing away from John and looking out of the windows exhaled a shuddering breath and let his shoulders slump. “You were right, it was what I did…before, but—,” he took his hands out of his hair and John could see them trembling slightly, “I can’t trust them anymore, not after…” 

And suddenly, John understood and his chest ached for Sherlock and what he had to go through, which John had only the briefest of knowledge about, they never talked about it and John knew he couldn’t press for something that Sherlock didn’t want to share, it would just be selfish. 

“I wasn’t talking about them,” John said. He didn’t know who them were, but he had an idea and it just made him bristle inwardly, so he pushed the thoughts to the back of his head. 

“John, you don’t have to do that for me. I know you’re not…,” he trailed of, but John knew what he wanted to say and it wasn’t the first time he cursed himself for ever starting so say it in the first place. 

“You’re right, I’m not. Turn around,” he said, wanting for Sherlock to see how John felt about this, they were both often better with just communicating by looking at each other than with actual words. 

Sherlock did and his eyes widened slightly by whatever he could read in John’s face. John certainly felt the determination and understanding he had for all this running trough his veins. 

When Sherlock’s eyes returned to his, he continued. “You could call me bisexual, but that is not the point. I can do that, Sherlock, if you want me.” 

“I…,” Sherlock started, but he was obviously trying to work something out in his head. “Are you absolutely sure, John? I need to know, stopping in the middle of it would be worse than never doing it in the first place.” 

Sherlock’s eyes were a mixture of uncertainty and gratitude and John didn't even have to think about it. “I’m sure, Sherlock. I really am.” 

It was as if a switch was flipped, Sherlock’s body language changed and his hands were already at the top of his shirt buttons. 

“Sherlock, wait,” John said, holding up a hand and the hurt that flashed through Sherlock’s eyes was something John would never want to see again, so he decided to take control right now, do the best he could and give Sherlock what he needed. 

He fell into parades rest and tried his best to get into the right headspace as fast as he could. 

“From here on out, you will not do anything, unless I give you the order,” he began and Sherlock let his hands fall back beside him. “I want us to start as equals. I want you to tell me in short what you expect of this. In any other circumstances, I would talk about this in more detail, but I know that now is not the time for that. You may speak whenever you want to.” 

He almost expected Sherlock to roll his eyes, but was pleased when Sherlock just answered, “I need you to dominate me completely for the duration of the session. While there are different ways for me and you to achieve the kind of headspace I need, painplay is the easiest and my preferred method. Although it is not mediatory, the effects are better if it ends in release.” 

“Good,” John said, feeling excited, but not showing it. They would need to talk about limits and other stuff later, that is, if this is something will be repeated and John couldn't deny that he already wanted this to continue beyond this one time. “Is there anything you would like me to know before we begin?” 

Sherlock swallowed. “What you will find on my back will not have an impact on what we are doing. I’ve been able to delete most of it and what I couldn’t will never have any correlation with this. I’m amenable to talk at a later time, but not now.” 

John pushed the things that were running though his mind back as soon as they came, this was not the time, even if Sherlock hadn’t explicitly asked this, but there weren’t that many things that could happen to someone who was on a two year undercover mission though Europe and beyond. 

He trusted Sherlock to tell the truth, so John’s concentration zeroed in on what they were about to do and what the reason for that was. 

He answered with a nod to let Sherlock know he understood. 

“Undress,” John ordered and Sherlock complied instantly. 

John’s eyes traced every bit of new flesh revealed, while Sherlock unbuttoned his shirt from the top down. He fantasied about this so many times, but never once was Sherlock the one to do it while John just watched. 

Either way, it was a beautiful sight and John felt his cock twitch in his pants already. Milky skin stretched over muscle and bone, a faint dusting of hair on his chest between two rosy nipples and John’s mind helpfully conjured all kinds of things he wanted to do with them. 

But not today, he had different plans. 

When Sherlock let his shirt slip over his shoulder, he carefully laid it over the back of John’s chair, but didn’t turn around in the process. 

John was about to order him to fold it, but found himself satisfied with the way Sherlock had done it and decided that, should they do this again, not out of necessity, but more because they just wanted to play, he would be stricter, but this was not about tasks for the sake of ordering, it was about letting Sherlock surrender his control as fast as reasonable succession and safety allowed. 

Sherlock moved to his trousers and John couldn’t help but fixate on those amazing fingers pulling the button from its loop and sliding down the zip. What followed were miles of lean and pale legs and John itched to lay his hands on him, to caress and feel, to mark and claim. 

Of course Sherlock wore black silk pants that clung to him in the most delicious ways and John hadn’t even seen his arse in them yet, but before he could get any further his thoughts were halted by those pants being pulled down and John was again awed by how at ease Sherlock was with his own nudeness. 

Sherlock wasn’t hard, which was nothing John concerned himself with yet, but he still took his fill on that beautiful, uncircumcised cock, nestled in a trimmed nest of hair that was several shades lighter than the mop of hair on Sherlock’s head, which John so loved. 

Although John only did something like this to such extends once, he noticed how easy it came to him, to think about what to do and how to. 

His gazed travelled back up, finding Sherlock’s and said, “Kneel,” infusing his voice with as much steel as he deemed necessary from now on. 

Sherlock’s breath hitched and he gracefully sank down to his knees, looking up at John with so much trust in his eyes that flooded John with warmth and affection for the brilliant detective in from of him. 

“Put your hands behind your back,” John ordered and Sherlock complied. “Whenever I order you to kneel, this is how you’re going to be. You will also address me as Sir, whenever you’re speaking. You’re not allowed to come, unless I give you permission. Disobey any of this and you will be punished. Is that understood?” 

Sherlock shivered. “Yes, Sir.” 

“Very good. I want you to choose a safeword now.” 

After a few seconds thinking, Sherlock answered, “Anthophila, Sir.” 

John would have to look that up later, but he was sure it had to do something with bees and he couldn’t keep a small smile off his lips this time, but the answering joy in Sherlock’s eyes was all he needed to see to know that this was all fine. 

“Anthophila. Should you use your safeword, everything will stop immediately and I will release you from any restraints. I will not be disappointed or angry if you use it, it is there for a reason. Understood?” 

“Yes, Sir,” Sherlock said and nodded. 

“Then I think it is time to take this to your bedroom. I will go up to my room for a second and when I come back, I want you kneeling by the side of your bed.” 

With that John turned around and took the stairs two at a time, he didn’t want to leave Sherlock alone at all, but he wasn’t sure Sherlock would have lube and now was a way better time to get it. 

He didn't bother with condoms since he wasn’t planning on doing anything that would make them necessary. 

Yet. 

Because in the back of his mind, he couldn’t stop thinking about how much more he wanted to do with Sherlock, to Sherlock. 

On the way back he grabbed the item he thought of the second Sherlock had mentioned painplay. The riding crop was still at it’s usual place, leaned against the wood and glass cupboard, party concealed by the window’s curtains. 

He had it on Sherlock’s authority that it wasn’t the one he used for his…experiments and John now understood why quite well. 

When he entered the room, Sherlock was exactly where and how John told him to be and as his gaze fell on the riding crop, his eyes widened, filling with want and his cock gave a strong twitch and John was pleased to have the visual conformation that his choice was met with great enthusiasm. 

He placed the lube on the bedside table for later use and grasped the crop firmly with his left hand, getting a feel for how it lay in his hand and the range of it. The leather was buttery soft and noticeably cared for, although he never once saw Sherlock holding it over the years. 

He began trailing the crop over Sherlock’s chest and arms, seeing that that alone made Sherlock’s breath quicker. 

Sherlock was not looking at John, his head was bowed down and that wouldn’t do for John right now, so he placed the tip of the crop under Sherlock’s chin and with the slightest of pressure, Sherlock began lifting his head until he was looking up at John and into his eyes. 

He was just beautiful and so stunning, cock half hard, a light spread of pink reaching from his cheek- to collarbones and his pupils where dark, not fully blown, but they hadn’t even really started yet. 

And just like this, John knew exactly what he wanted and needed right this second. He pulled the crop from Sherlock’s chin, stepped closer, grabbing a fistful of Sherlock’s hair and making him gasp, he pulled his head further back and brought their lips together. 

It started out as just lips on lips, but the second Sherlock went pliant, which didn’t take long, John was there with his tongue, caressing his lower lip, pushing it deeper into Sherlock’s mouth and taking control of it right from the beginning. 

The kiss grew heated and by the time Sherlock started moaning against John, they were both completely hard and wanting. 

“Turn,” John growled, “put your head on the edge of the bed, arms above it.” 

Before Sherlock turned, he gave John a pleading look for what couldn’t have been more than a second, and then did as John ordered. 

It was hard not to react, it really was. Sherlock’s back was littered with all kinds of scars. Short, long, thin, the two small round ones, John thought, must have come from cigarettes. 

It would have been so easy to let the anger take him, but Sherlock told him everything he needed to know for now and John would never in his life let the rage he was feeling right now, influence what they were doing. 

He did it back then in the field and he could do it now. 

He walked over to the right side of Sherlock and brushed the crop down his spine, seeing the small contraction of Sherlock’s back muscles and the goosebumps rising there. 

From there, he let the crop travel over Sherlock’s sides, making him squirm, his arse and the back of his thighs, sensitising the areas and prepping them for the strikes. 

Without warning, he landed the first blow on Sherlock’s left buttock, which elicited a heavy exhale and his hands balled into fists. 

He landed the next six in rather quick succession beneath Sherlock’s shoulder blades, avoiding his spine. 

By the fourth, Sherlock was noticeably panting, but other than that there was no sound coming from the man. 

John wasn’t putting his full strength behind the blows yet, or rather the amount he would put behind it before it would very likely break skin, which he wouldn’t do, even if asked. 

The next one landed on Sherlock’s right cheek, with a much louder crack as before and Sherlock moaned deep in his chest, so John followed this with nine more to Sherlock’s arse and thighs, always keeping the time between blows random, so he would be kept guessing when the next one came. 

John was surprised when, after those ten blows, Sherlock murmured a quite, “Please,” but if it had been a long time since Sherlock had last done this, the effects would likely be way stronger. 

“What was that?” John prompted. 

“May I come?” 

Inwardly, John didn’t know if he wanted to snicker at Sherlock’s mistake, or feel bad for him, but rules where rules, so he said, “I think you forgot something.” 

Sherlock went tense, realising what he had done wrong. “Oh god. Sir. Please, Sir. May I come, Sir?” 

“No, Sherlock,” John scolded. “I told you disobeying the rules leads to punishment. Four strikes with my hand, two for each time you didn’t address me. Will you except your punishment?” 

Sherlock drew in a deep breath. “Y-Yes, Sir. I except my punishment.” 

John put the crop down beside the lube and knelt behind Sherlock on one leg. He placed his right hand on the small of his back, rubbing in circles to calm Sherlock down a little. 

John new he couldn’t show any weakness or hesitation, so he didn’t and laid the first one perfectly to the center of Sherlock’s left arse cheek, on top of two already very prominent crop strikes.

Sherlock released a strangled breath, but otherwise didn’t protest. 

The next one landed on Sherlock’s right and John made sure to let his whole hand make contact with Sherlock’s skin, the imprint of his hand visible in a nice red colour. 

When the third blow landed, in almost exactly the same place as the one before, John heard Sherlock sob once quietly into the mattress and he knew the message was definitely received. 

Nonetheless the last strike hit the left of Sherlock’s arse, but slightly lower this time, in order to not hit the same spot again. 

It didn’t really make a difference, John knew that part where thigh met butt was extremely sensitive and going by Sherlock’s scream, John wasn’t mistaken. 

“Good boy,” John praised. “You took that so well for me, Sherlock. All done now.” 

John took a minute to caress the areas he had just hit, it would burn, he knew, but Sherlock sighed and so he kept it up, not only to calm, but also to show Sherlock that he had been forgiven. 

John got up to his feet again and took in the picture Sherlock presented in front of him. Pale skin was marked with welts and handprints and the flush had travelled down to his shoulder blades, a perfect piece evidence for Sherlock’s arousal. 

“Lay on your back on the bed, hands above your head, grab the headboard,” John ordered and Sherlock complied, albeit a tiny bit unsteady. John was right there though, should Sherlock loose his balance. 

Once again, John had to just take a moment and look. Sherlock’s eyes were blown by now, his skin flushed a deep pink with a thin layer of sweat, John wanted to devour him. 

When he stepped to the side of the bed and their eyes met, he unbuckled his belt and pulled it out of his loops. 

Sherlock’s eyes went wide at the possibilities of what John might be doing with it, but before he could say anything, John was leaning down over him and tied his hands to the headboard. John checked the binding, making sure circulation to Sherlock’s hands was ensured. 

He could have gotten out, if he really wanted to, but Sherlock’s closed eyes and his evened out breathing told John that he was very much content how he was. 

It was finally time for John to loose his clothes, which he was more than happy about. It was fortunate that he didn’t wear his most constricting jeans today, but it was uncomfortable either way with a rock hard dick while moving around and dominating the most handsome and brilliant man he knew. 

He wasn’t conscious of his own scar, but John knew that Sherlock could read a lot, if not everything about it and with the intensity in Sherlock’s eyes and the way the muscles in his arms strained, he knew that there had to be a time after this in which he would give Sherlock time to explore and analyse. 

When his trouser fell and he stepped out of it, revealing the substantial bulge in his pants, Sherlock moaned deep in his throat and licked his lips which in turn made John surpress a moan of his own. 

What he would give right now for those beautiful lips to be wrapped around his cock, sucking him down and gagging on it. 

The gasp Sherlock gave when he got his first look of John’s prick would give any man enough ego to last for a very long time and John couldn’t help himself and took himself in hand right in front of Sherlock and gave it a few luxurious strokes from root to tip. 

They both moaned this time. 

At this point, John wasted no thoughts on the fact that this was the first time they were going to have sex, or how the progress went from flatmates to kinky sex plays in a matter of minutes, because all he wanted to do was feel Sherlock’s cock in his hand and watch that face when he orgasmed. 

So John grabbed the lube from the bedside table and got up on the bed, straddling Sherlocks thighs and the feel of those muscles flexing underneath him and the heat that radiated through his skin brought him so much closer to the edge already, it should have been embarrassing.

He let Sherlock watch and writhe for a couple of seconds before he poured some of the lube on his left hand and took them both in a tight grip. 

When their cocks touched, Sherlock threw his head back and arched his back off the bed, and the sounds he was making were absolutely sinful. 

John’s position let him notice the exact point when Sherlock came close. His thighs would tense and his panting got faster and faster and right when he started to beg to come, John would let go of his cock and continue stoking just his own. 

By the second time he did this, Sherlock was trashing his head from one side to the other and he was thoroughly babbling incoherent things.

He was the picture of debauchery, hair sticking up at all angles, sweaty, eyes screwed shut and John absolutely loved it. He loved that he was the one to take Sherlock to such a state, to make him feel this way. 

It was almost as much torture for John as it was for Sherlock, except that John could continue to stroke himself, whereas Sherlock was left with no stimulation at all. 

By the third time, John gave in, because not only did Sherlock need to come, he himself couldn’t hold out much longer. 

He started to stroke them in earnest again and when he felt himself getting close, which only took a few strokes, he said, “Sherlock, look at me.” 

Sherlocks eyes flew open and the moment his eyes found John’s he simply ordered, “Come,” saw every muscle in Sherlock’s body lock up, his mouth formed in a silent scream and felt Sherlock’s cock pulse in his hand, which send John over the edge right that second as well. 

While aftershocks were still cursing through there bodies, John reached up and freed Sherlock from his bonds, bringing his arms slowly to his sides. 

John had planned to get up and get a wet flannel, but while he was still leaning over Sherlock’s chest he was pulled down in a fierce hug, which was more than fine by him and so he buried his head in the crook of Sherlock’s neck. 

After a few minutes of enjoying the afterglow, Sherlock began to stir, his backside obviously smarting, so John got up and went to the loo to fetch a wet flannel and some soothing creme he had in the bathroom cabinet. 

He wiped down Sherlock first, then himself, before disposing the flannel to the floor and getting back into bed. 

Sherlock had turned on his front by then, so John began smoothing the creme over his back, arse and thighs. 

When he was finished, he leaned up against the headboard and pulled Sherlock into his arms, peppering him with kisses to the top of his head and stroking lightly over every part of skin that he could reach. 

He wondered briefly if this was rather showing how he really felt about the man laying on his chest and if it would be too much affection, but the longer John kept going, the more Sherlock melted into him and the closer he snuggled. 

John had no idea how much time went by and Sherlock was so still and relaxed, he wondered if he might have fallen asleep, but then Sherlock turned his head and looked at him. 

“Thank you, John,” he breathed and it was so full of emotions and the fact that it came from Sherlock made John’s throat close up and he struggled on what he wanted to say. 

John wanted to say so much in that moment and simultaneously nothing at all, because nothing he could say would be enough to tell Sherlock how he felt. 

Love, affection, awe, guilt, anger. 

“Are they dead?” John asked, because he could deal with anger. It was the easiest emotion for him to deal with, it was back in uni playing rugby, it was in the army and it was with Sherlock, putting criminals behind bars. 

“Yes, John. I know you have—“ 

“Good,” John interrupted. “Than that’s all I need to know.” 

Sherlock’s grip on his biceps tightened. “But you want to know more.” 

John sighed. “Yes. But I’m not going to force you. It’s your choice.” 

There was a long pause and John felt himself drifting to sleep when he was pulled back by Sherlock’s quite, “John?” 

“Hmm?” 

“Would you be fine doing this again?” 

John smiled and a knot he didn’t know had formed in his stomach uncoiled and set free a warmth that spread from there through his whole body. “More than fine, Sherlock.” 

At that, Sherlock lifted his head once again and he was smiling too now. 

John bent down and sealed there lips together in a slow and tender kiss and it gave them both the understanding that this wasn’t purely about giving and taking control or the sexual expect of it. 

It was about the beginning of something new, of finally being where they should have been years ago.


End file.
